


Gallows Humor

by ShevatheGun



Series: The Mistress: The Rise and Regrets of Tora Naprem [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Like nothing crazy but.....yknow. Cardassians be like that, Nihilism, Occupation of Bajor, Original Bajoran Character(s) - Freeform, Original Cardassian Character(s) - Freeform, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, What if Dukat's character..........was actually consistent, tfw you meet a Bajoran and she reads you for filth and you absolutely get off on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShevatheGun/pseuds/ShevatheGun
Summary: Tora Naprem arrives at Terok Nor on the assumption that she's come here to die. Gul Skrain Dukat, meanwhile, arrives thinking that he'd really like to NOT die, if at all possible.
Relationships: Dukat/Tora Naprem
Series: The Mistress: The Rise and Regrets of Tora Naprem [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/347267
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Gallows Humor

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, I did it. I finally went and wrote their first meeting. Look at me go! Y'all thought I forgot about this series. But that's my secret, Cap. I'm always thinking about Tora Naprem.
> 
> Big changes are coming for this series. When they're coming is impossible to say. I'll keep you updated. In the meantime, enjoy.

**Terok Nor - Harvest Season, 2351 - 23rd Year of the Occupation**

* * *

They muzzle her on the transport from Cibawea. They’ve never muzzled her before.

To think - seventeen years into internment, and they’re still finding new ways to punish and humiliate her. It’s actually quite impressive. She didn’t give them enough credit, way back at the beginning. Surely, she thought, in a few decades, they’ll run out of things to do to me.

But these restraints are new: cuffs that encase her entire forearms in gauntlets of metal, bracelets around her ankles, a collar around her neck; and the muzzle, of course. Every piece magnet-locked in a device that forces her to endure the entire flight standing silently upright.

Two Cardassian soldiers stand beside her, and two directly across from her. They’re all holding rifles. She has no idea if there are any other Bajorans on the transport - she’s locked in a separate compartment, alone with her captors. Her feet are going numb. Eventually, she closes her eyes and feigns sleep. There’s nothing else to do.

“I don’t see why they didn’t just kill her,” she hears one of the soldiers say.

If she’s completely honest, Naprem doesn’t either. But that’s the way with Cardassians. Just when she thinks they’ve run out of things to do to her, they come up with something new.

* * *

...and yet, she thinks, as Terok Nor’s security chief slams her head into the wall - in spite of all that innovation, they never stray far from what they’re best at.

“Our orders are to release her into the general population,” the officer who brought her in is saying.

Security Chief Lukin is a man so grizzled that it’s impossible to tell how old he is. He’s a scowling, ugly sort of man with the general construction of a blunt object. His coiffure is slightly shorter than she’s used to seeing on Cardassian men, which gives the distinct impression he did it himself.

It’s also been a long time since she’s been in the hands of an interrogator so utterly disinterested in getting any information out of her. The only thing Security Chief Lukin seems to want to do is cause her as much pain with as little effort as possible. If the blood on her face is any indication, he’s doing an admirable job.

“A Level 9 Risk?” he growls. “In _general population_? Over my dead body.”

“That’s a 6, sir,” the officer says, holding out his PADD.

“I can read,” Lukin snaps. Naprem’s started to slump forward, so he reaches up and grabs her by the forehead, bouncing her head against the wall. “Where do they want her stationed?”

“No work permit, sir.”

“No _work permit?_ ” Lukin whips around, billowing anger. Naprem takes the momentary reprieve to try to catalogue her injuries - she’d collapsed when they’d unlocked her restraints, mostly from the numbness in her legs and the heavy weight of her cuffs. Lukin had taken the opportunity to deal her a kick to the ribs that she can still feel. Bruised, possibly. The cuffs themselves have left bruises along her wrists and neck and ankles; she’s bleeding from her nose and her forehead. The back of her head is tender. Not so bad, all things considered. But Lukin’s yet to bring out his toolkit. So almost certainly the worst is yet to come.

“You’re telling me they sent me a damn seditionist with no paperwork?”

“It’s still being processed. Likely awaiting clearance from the new Prefect.”

Lukin backhands Naprem before she even realizes he’s close enough to do it again. When he begins speaking again, her head is swimming.

“Dukat arrives in three days. I don’t need him walking into a mess.”

“Any more of one at least,” the other officer says under his breath.

Lukin doesn’t appear to hear him. “Give me one good reason not to space this one.”

Despite herself - the ringing emptiness inside her - Naprem shudders at the thought.

“It would mean we wasted a good bit of fuel getting her here,” the officer says. “Besides - she’s a high priority prisoner. Might as well let Dukat execute her himself. Probably be good for morale.”

“And until then?” Lukin growls. “We don’t have any room in the brig.”

The officer shrugs. “Throw her in with general population as planned. It’s as good a place for her as any.”

“And let her insight unrest?”

“Ah, no chance of that,” the other officer says. “Is there?” he asks her. “Bazhorans are too superstitious for that. They’ll smell the stink of death on her. Leave her in general population and they might well kill her themselves. Usually the best way to deal with prisoners like this, in my experience.”

Lukin seems to size her up for a moment. Then, finally, he nods and turns to the security officer near the door.

“Chip her and toss her in wherever there’s room. If she isn’t dead in three days, we’ll let Dukat have her as a welcome gift.”

Naprem tries valiantly to feel nothing about this, but the hatred flows in reflexively - hatred, and immense regret that she wasn’t brave enough to die by her own hand on her own terms back at Cibawea. Now she’s stuck letting other people decide when and how to do away with her. She’s torn between wanting to escape, and wishing they’d just get it over with.

When they toss her into the Section 35 group barracks, it’s with the thin veneer of her dignity; she’s wearing the uniform she came in, her threadbare shoes, and her d’ja pagh. The workers recoil from her like oil from water. When she gets to her feet, everyone stares, but no one speaks. She’s weak from being on her feet, and from countless hours with neither food nor water.

She walks slowly down the aisle of cots and bedrolls, looking dazedly around. Her face is swollen from Lukin’s beating, but nothing aches quite as much as the abject sensation of isolation. She had no idea that a room this crowded could be this quiet. No one offers her space. No one asks her name.

When she finally finds a place to sit - towards the very back of the room - everyone within three feet of her pulls away, moving their cots and rolls to give her a comically wide berth. She sits there, numb to the soft hum of whispers and the soldier’s declarations of lights out.

Seventeen years of suffering, and at long last, she’s finally utterly and completely alone, with only the looming abyss to keep her company.

Perhaps death won’t be so bad, she thinks. At least then, she won’t be subjected to any more staring. At least then, the pain will end, and it will be quiet.

* * *

Even after all the difficulty, all the favors, the agreements, the political wheeling and dealing - Skrain Dukat is starting to regret taking this job.

He’d wanted it, once upon a time. (That time being approximately every day for the last three years until… right now.) He had, in fact, wanted it more than he’d wanted anything else in a very, very long time, and gone to greater lengths to secure it than he’d thought he was capable of. He’d done so, in fact, against the strenuous objections of everyone in his life possessed of common sense and/or an iota of caring for him, and in spite of being in the best professional standing of his adult life, which, if he’d wanted, could’ve been leveraged to much more desirable ends.

And so, here he is - forty-two, one of the youngest Prefects ever assigned, fresh off several professional successes so robust that even his most dedicated adversaries in Central Command hadn’t been able to deny them… with spittle dripping from his service medallion.

“They’ll be dealt with,” Security Chief Lukin is assuring him. The Bazhoran who’d spat at him has already been dragged away, no doubt to receive whatever passes for discipline on this scrapheap. Dukat waves away Lukin’s excuses without a word.

His welcome had been less impressive than he’d been imagining. From the second he stepped down the gangway, he’d been subjected to the station’s tragic lack of ostentation. Sloppy, reckless craftsmanship is welded into the very bulkheads, and the halls are immensely crowded. Heat wafts up from the ore processing chambers through the vents, which is pleasant, but further proof of shoddy design.

He’s only grateful that he was able to get here so quickly. In their introductory video conference, First Minister Kubus had invited him to stop off in the Bazhoran capital to - as he’d put it - ‘get acclimated.’ Dukat’s already glad he didn’t. His last visit to the planet is decades behind him, but he can tell he likes it no better now than he did then. Life on Terok Nor will take more than enough adjustment. Best to skip ahead to this part, this moment: security officers parting waves of Bazhorans around him, their bioelectricity roaring against his _krilatzbre-yezul_ , the air stinking of iridium and salty mammalian sweat.

“You made good time,” Lukin says. Dukat barely restrains his shock. Watching Lukin attempting small talk is like watching a professional orator trying to whisper.

“Yes - I’m eager to begin our work here. Perhaps,” he says, looking around, “a bit over-eager, all things considered…” They move together into the lift to Operations, and as he steps inside, he favors Lukin with a glance. “You’ve been here a week, Chief. I expect you’ve been able to assess the status of security onboard this station.”

“Better than we expected. A few problems in need of your attention - an enduring criminal element.” Lukin blows an annoyed sigh out through his nose. “We’ve seen an increase in the number of inbound high-risk prisoners. Seems the other guls are expecting your discipline to prove effective where theirs couldn’t.”

Dukat sighs. He knows from acting as warden of Letau Prison for the last few years that Terok Nor is often the midway point for Bazhoran prisoners bound for those hallowed walls. No doubt there’s a number of transfer requests awaiting his approval.

“Any imminent threats?”

“Increased rebel activity. We suspect we may see an assassination attempt or two.” Lukin shifts, clearly uneasy. “Especially given the last one was so successful.”

Dukat’s mouth twists in a frown. Yes, he supposes it was.

“Gul Tirek’s passing is… regrettable.” _Inevitable_ , more like. Dukat likes to think of himself as fairly generous with his good will, but Kogol Tirek had been a charmless, incompetent lush when he’d been stationed on Prime, and the idea that Bazhor would have had a positive effect on him is laughable. Quietly, Dukat’s fairly certain he deserved what he got, although the fact that it had been allowed to happen was an embarrassment Central Command will not soon recover from. Dismissing all parties involved had been merciful, to say the least. “But I have confidence that you’ll prove more effective than your predecessor at keeping my head attached to my shoulders.”

Lukin huffs. “Let’s hope. Don’t know why you insisted on coming out here in the first place.”

The lift glides upwards and at last he’s greeted by the welcome sight of an orderly, well-functioning Operations department; all officers working diligently at their stations. As he steps off the lift, every eye turns to him, and the men salute him, fists pressed to their hearts, heads bowed. He grins, gratified at last.

“Why come here?” he repeats, loud enough for all of them to hear. “Why, Security Chief Lukin - because this territory represents perhaps the greatest potential acquisition in the history of the Union. Bazhor is an _opportunity_ , as immense as it is difficult.” He looks around, delighted by the rapt attention of his men. “And I see that in spite of the mismanagement of past administrations, I am surrounded by competent, hardworking Cardassians, proud to do the work other, lesser species might shy from.”

He turns to Lukin, pride returning to fill out his shoulders as he ascends the steps to his office. “I am the man this occupation effort so desperately needs. Perhaps you don’t see that yet - but I promise you, I come here out of a great sense of duty and purpose. Bazhor is a paradise; a bountiful jewel that could well feed, clothe, and house our entire empire for generations.” He clenches his fist before him, as though seizing that ripe fruit for himself. “If only we harvest it correctly… this could be our greatest triumph. Can’t you see? I’m here because this is where I _belong._ Where I am most needed.”

The doors to his office slide open, and he’s pleased to see the officers turn back to their work reluctantly, some with grins of their own. The atmosphere feels lighter than when he entered, and for a moment he almost dares to feel excited.

Then, of course, he turns and finds the enormous swath of blood on the floor of his office. Lukin curses.

“I told them to clean this up,” he grumbles.

Dukat opens his mouth, then shuts it. He risks toeing the stain - it’s dry, but so vivid that he has no trouble imagining what it must’ve looked like wet. Involuntarily, he feels himself reach up to massage his own throat.

“I’m told they beheaded him with a shovel,” Lukin says, conversationally. “Took almost twenty minutes.”

Dukat gives him a look, and he seems to realize that this is not acceptable small talk. He clams up, shaking his head a little.

“Won’t happen on my watch,” he promises.

“See that it doesn’t,” Dukat says. He sighs, then steps over the bloodstain to the desk, sinking into his chair.

Lukin fumbles awkwardly. “I’ll get custodial back in here.”

“There’s no rush,” Dukat says, flicking on the terminal. “I have almost seven hours of instructional and disciplinary announcements to record as it is.”

Lukin nods. “...welcome to Terok Nor,” he attempts.

Dukat looks up from his terminal for just long enough to smile politely. “You’re dismissed, Chief.”

Oh yes, he thinks as Lukin beats a hasty retreat and the office fills once more with the stale smell of blood. He _definitely_ regrets taking this job.

* * *

Three days after arriving at Terok Nor, Naprem still has a black eye, a bloody lip, and not a single solitary person to talk to.

There's nowhere to go. She's not allowed out of the group quarters, a fact she discovers when she attempts to leave the day after she arrives with the morning shift and one of the guards strikes her to the floor with the butt of his rifle, so hard that she's fairly certain he loosens one of her teeth. The crowd leaps away from her, leaving her to drown in a small puddle of isolation. No one offers to help her up, so she struggles there on her own. The officer who struck her watches it all, seeming amused.

"No work permit," he tells her.

"Isn't that _your_ problem?" she asks under her breath.

He must see her lips move. He grabs her by the arm, sneering. "What was that? Speak up."

Naprem has spent the better part of the last seventeen years shutting the hell up when soldiers ask questions in this tone of voice. She can almost feel her Great Aunt Uru's hand pressing into her back, shaking with fear.

 _Just stay quiet_ , Uru's voice pleads in her head. _Let go of your pride._

But Uru is dead now, and soon Naprem will be too. She doesn't see the point.

"I said," she repeats, without feeling, "isn't that your problem?"

This time, at least, when he clubs her in the head, it isn't a surprise. She waits for the shift to change to ask her next question.

"Pardon me," she says to a different guard in the afternoon, long after her various aches and pains have become too muddled to differentiate anymore. "I'm aware I'm not permitted to leave. I was wondering if I can expect to be permitted to eat."

The guard gives her a look like she's diseased. "You eat when we say you eat."

"You understand that's… not really an answer to my question."

"Get lost," the guard suggests, and she obliges mostly because he doesn't hit her to make his point.

The crease of hunger bores a hole in her, but there's nothing to be done about it, so she's forced to pad silently back over to her cot, where she sits for the remainder of the day growing slowly, but noticeably weaker. In many ways this is cause for concern, but it makes it harder to think, which makes it easier to sit still for hours doing nothing. She tries to do what she normally does when left to entertain herself for an indeterminate amount of time: pull entertainment from her memories, replaying conversations or reciting prayers, humming excerpts from operas she once performed, trying to remember the scenes of her favorite books word for word. But when she looks into her mind, the only thing she finds is empty noise where her thoughts should be. The only thing she sees is Duvek's quarters in a shroud of chemical flames.

She's grateful when she slips into a doze.

She's awakened that evening by a pair of soldiers grabbing her by the arms, forcing her to stand and then carrying her out of the group quarters between them, so her toes barely brush the floor. They deposit her into a chair in the mess hall, and stand guard as someone slaps a tray of nutrient paste in front of her.

"Eat," someone orders. Every Bajoran in the mess hall is staring at her.

She eats because she's too hungry not to. The nutrient paste, as always, tastes of kelp and bitter protein powder. She's forced to drink her entire daily water allotment from a hose in one go - allowed to visit the restroom for the first time since her arrival while her escorts watch her, unblinking. The guards carry her back to the group quarters, where the berth around her cot has widened somehow. People are practically crowding into their neighbors' beds to avoid her. The person nearest her is a woman with a sharp angular face, who pulls her arm away as Naprem sits down, though they're really nowhere near each other.

"Seems a bit extreme," Naprem says, mostly to herself.

The woman stares at her. She slowly eases her arm back down to her side. But the others around her scoot and scurry further away.

Naprem tells herself she doesn't care. Incredibly, across the rolling sands of time, she hears someone's voice in her memory: _someday, I'll spit on them in death the way they spat on me in life._

It brings her surprisingly little comfort.

* * *

The custodial staff are at work for hours lifting the stain from his office floor. By the time he ends his shift and steps into the lift to the habitat ring, Dukat can still feel the vibrations from the industrial scrubber rattling the plates of his skull.

Lukin is waiting for him on the Promenade to escort him to his new quarters.

"That ran long," he says.

Dukat shakes his head. "Just preparatory work, I'm afraid. Our real work lies ahead of us."

Lukin grunts, leading him towards the lift to the habitat ring. His men hold the milling crowd at bay, but Dukat surveys them, taking in the sea of dirty, malnourished faces. He spots a few children in the hordes, huddling so close to the adults around them that they could be mistaken for their shadows.

"Now that," he says, mind turning, "is something we must resolve posthaste."

"The pups?" Lukin asks.

Dukat wrinkles his nose, mouth twisting with disapproval. "The _children_ , Chief. Please. We are civilized men."

Lukin shrugs. "They breed like voles, sir. Seems like the right word to me. Little whelps get everywhere, too. And to hear the men tell it, they're practically useless until they hit adulthood. Not that I can tell the grown ones from the rest."

"Chief," Dukat growls. "I will _not_ tolerate that sort of language in my presence. Do I make myself clear?"

"...yes sir," Lukin says, looking deeply annoyed. They step onto the lift, and Dukat let's him soak in his displeasure until the doors slide shut.

"What is the Bazhoran age of emergence?" he asks.

Lukin shrugs. "Hell if I know. Why?"

"I believe it may be to the detriment of our operations here to allow Bazhoran juveniles to participate in manual labor before they reach physical maturity. In fact," he says, "I'm certain of it."

"How do you mean?"

Dukat’s hand has come up to his chin - this has actually been on his mind for a while, ever since he read the initial productivity reports several years ago. Every time he does this - every time he’s sent in to clean up someone else’s catastrophic mess - there is a first step to take, an instant and apparent change that with decisive action can serve as a pressure release; proof of his competence and goodwill, and proof, too, of what’s to come.

Lesser men often falter in this first act of leadership, failing to realize that the best way to establish one’s self as the instrument of change that a festering quagmire desperately needs is to take at least one sizable action almost as soon as you arrive. Gul Skrain Dukat is not lesser men. Since he first set his gaze on this assignment, he’s been contemplating what his first act might be. And the children of Bazhor are as good a place to start as any.

“Why, it’s self-evident. You said it yourself - they’re hardly capable of assisting in labor until they reach physical maturity. But it’s worse than that. On the work floor, they’re not simply non-contributors, but active liabilities. Parents of any species are less productive when they’re forced to supervise their own children. It splits their focus, caps their work ethic.”

Lukin grunts, neither seeming to agree or disagree. “Doesn’t help we have to fish the little bastards out of the machinery once or twice a day.”

Dukat feels an involuntary flex of horror at the thought - tiny limbs twisted and warped by the punishing metal arms of the ore processing machines. He breathes out, forcing himself to remember what he’s dealing with. These aren’t _Cardassian_ children, after all. An abundance of pity will only hamper his ability to govern these creatures effectively. _Stick to logic_ , he tells himself.

He clears his throat, pressing onward. “More to my point. Ideally, these children will grow to serve us in the same capacity as their parents; if they’re critically injured or die before reaching workable age, they’re not worth the cost of their upkeep. That’s several years of food rations we’ve wasted.”

“So? They’ll have more. They always do.”

“The numbers don’t agree with you, Chief. This station is well populated now, but I can’t afford to be so short-sighted - what of the Bazhor ten years from now? Or twenty?” He shakes his head, pitying Lukin’s inability to see the bigger picture. “We can’t afford to pretend the population of adult Bazhorans we have now will last indefinitely - at some point, we’ll have to replace them. It may not seem urgent now, but in ten years, if we’ve crippled or diminished our viable stock to replace them, we’ll have no one to blame but ourselves.”

Lukin huffs, seeming to at least either agree to Dukat’s premise or submit to it. The door slides open and they step out onto the habitat ring.

“You think the guls are going to agree to that?”

Dukat lets himself grin.

“If the Prefect issues an order, they’ll have no choice.”

Lukin nods, accepting this. “Glinn Damar’s inbound?”

“He arrives tomorrow.”

“Mm. Good. You two should come by the security office after he arrives. A few security matters that need your sign off.”

Dukat raises a brow ridge, but Lukin thrusts his lower lip up in a shrug, shaking his head. “Nothing urgent. Executions and the like.”

“Ah,” Dukat says, barely concealing his distaste. Sordid business. “I see. Well.” They arrive in front of his quarters, where two security officers frame the door. “Then I shall see you again at 900 hours.”

“Yes, sir. Night, sir.”

As the doors slide open and Lukin ambles back the way they came, Dukat thinks he might spend the better part of the evening focused on something he prefers to executions. Designing the planetwide ban on child labor ought to keep him busy. After a bottle of kanar, perhaps… and a call home to Athra.

* * *

Four days after Naprem arrives, everything falls apart.

The order arrives at 315 hours, which Naprem knows because she’s lying awake. It’s an hour before the morning shift klaxon, and the guards are changing shift. She hears them arguing, but can’t make out most of the words.

She hears, “orders from the Prefect,” and “effective immediately,” and “I don’t care what you do with them.” After that, it’s all disgruntled muttering too quiet for her to hear.

After that, she’s awake mostly to see whatever is about to happen. And she doesn’t have to wait long.

She sits up when the klaxon sounds; she tries to get up with everyone else even though there’s nowhere for her to go. She likes to feel included in the ritual, at least, even if people still won’t make eye contact with her. So when everyone gets up, she gets up too, though she stands against the wall out of the way of the shuffling masses.

Section 35 is, by Naprem’s understanding, mostly single women. There are only a few children - enough to count on only one hand - and they sleep with their mothers or aunts or, in one case, a cousin, near the front of the room. And so, Naprem learns later, the commotion in Section 35 is decidedly quieter than that raised in, for example, the family barracks of Sections 14 through 31 when the guards stop several workers on their way out and separate them bodily from their children.

The shouting starts almost instantly, and Naprem can almost make out the words - but quickly the volume crescendos, moving in a wave from the front of the room, spiraling into an incoherent bombast of crying and screaming, the soldiers shouting for order. Naprem presses into the wall to fight her desperate curiosity, her desire to push forward through the crowd to get a better look. She can see the tide swelling - she knows that one push will turn into a stampede in no time. Someone will push to see, and someone else will push back, and then a fight will break out--

And that is precisely what happens.

Someone pushes to see.

Someone else pushes back, too hard.

The first person trips into someone else and they go tumbling. People leap out of the way and knock into other people, and the people at the front of the line are still shouting, arguing with the guards, and they don’t see what’s happening. A fight breaks out. Everyone near it surges away, tumbling into one another. One of the people at the head of the line gets too close to an officer while she’s shouting and he shoves her back. A child begins to cry and there’s shouts of protest, and then another fight is happening at the head of the line as people surge forward to retrieve the children, tear them back out of the soldier’s hands.

Naprem is flat to the wall as the room explodes into chaos around her, and the only thing she can hear over all the noise is a soldier shouting, “By order of the Prefect! By **_order of the Prefect!_** ” over and over and over. She doesn't think it's having the effect on them that he's going for.

* * *

Glinn Damar's arrival is the one thing that's gone right for him all morning.

Dukat sent the order out early over the extranet: a complete and total cessation of child labor planet-wide, effective immediately. He'd been up late reviewing the language with Doctrinary, once the preliminary algorithm had cleared it. He already has a furious message waiting on his personal terminal from Kell, but Doctrinary had agreed that this much is well within his power to do, and Dukat knows Kell won't risk overstepping his authority so early into his tenure.

So by the time Damar steps off the ship from Prime, Dukat has had several hours to marinate in his smug sense of accomplishment.

“Twenty-six hours and you’ve already made the newsfeeds, sir.”

Dukat grins and claps Damar on the shoulder. “Now, Damar… what is a newlywed like yourself doing reviewing the newsfeeds so early in the morning? I should think you’d be sleeping the deep and peaceful slumber of the freshly married. “

“Maybe,” Damar agrees. “But my commanding Gul has insisted on solving a crisis halfway across Union space. So sleep will have to wait.”

Dukat chortles pityingly. “Ah, I’m a cruel man. Your wife must be cursing my name.”

“I’m afraid she’ll have to curse it a while longer,” Damar says with a smile.

Dukat’s own grin stretches as wide as it will go.

“There’s a good man.”

A garresh takes Damar’s luggage - a single Union-issue bag - and as they walk together slowly towards the Promenade, Dukat takes a moment to genuinely enjoy his company. Damar matches his stride, and their conversation is casual and easy, the peaceful rhythm of old friends. Dukat intends to show him first to Operations, then to the Security Office. Then, he thinks, he might excuse them both to an early lunch - he’s been meaning to take stock of the Promenade’s few resident businesses, and he’s heard good things about the restaurant that services the station’s ranking officers.

But all that heady daydreaming is dispersed the second he steps out of the lift onto the Promenade.

For just a second, he thinks he may well have just walked headlong into a riot. The noise is deafening: people shouting, children crying, soldiers issuing commands, workers cursing and spitting. Through the cacophony, he’s able to make out several soldiers hauling Bazhorans in the direction of the Security Office. He grabs one by the shoulder as he passes.

“What happened here?”

“What?” The soldier spins with a nasty twist to his mouth, only to recoil when he realizes who he’s speaking to. “I-- Gul Dukat, sir-- Just dealing with a few rabble rousers, sir...”

But Dukat wasn’t hatched yesterday. _‘A few rabble rousers’_ indeed. The line of Bazhorans being marched down the Promenade is more like an unofficial parade. He counts no fewer than ten as he pushes through the crowd, Damar on his heels. By the time he reaches the Security Office, his temper is boiling beneath his skin.

The Security Office is packed, people crowded in shoulder to shoulder, everyone shouting. Lukin is at the center of it all, practically vibrating with ire. When he spots Dukat he motions for him to approach.

“Chief!” Dukat barks. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“ _This_ ,” Lukin says, shouting to be heard over the noise, “is what these little vermin think of your plan to save their children. There’ve been altercations in every residential section! They’ve been attacking the officers!”

Disbelief breaks wet and cold over the back of Dukat’s neck. Surely not - there must be some kind of mistake. Beside him, Damar’s shaking his head, wearing his shock openly.

 _Animals._ What could’ve possessed them to show such flagrant ingratitude in face of such immense generosity? Dukat struggles to fathom it. What parent in their right mind would resist such a policy?

Then, another voice makes it to his ears over the din - a Bazhoran woman, her ridgeless features marred with bruises, bursts forth with a plaintive wail. “What do you want with our children? They’ve done nothing wrong!”

A chorus of pleading joins hers, and Dukat feels a fuzzy realization begin to coalesce in his chest. He motions for silence. The noise only grows louder. He motions again - this time, Damar’s voice booms through the room to join it.

“ **The Prefect has called for _silence!_** ”

A hush goes through the room like something being unplugged. The Bazhorans cower, as though they weren’t the cause of all this. The soldiers even have the presence of mind to look vaguely abashed, shrinking into their uniforms. The doorway is finally clear, and the office doors slide shut, muting the ongoing ruckus from the Promenade.

Dukat paces to the front of the room, peering around. More than one of the Bazhorans is shaking. Lukin moves obediently away from his terminal as Dukat comes to stand in front of it.

Is that all they need, he wonders? An explanation?

He presses the button to broadcast to the rest of the station, but addresses the people before him.

“Good people,” he says. “Bazhoran workers of this station. I am your Prefect, Gul Dukat. This morning, it was my pleasure to put into effect a ban of all child labor on board this station. Effective immediately, all Bazhorans found to be below the age of physical maturity will be removed from working rotation. The soldiers confining your children to quarters do so under my orders, for their own health and safety.”

He sees the Bazhoran faces of his captive audience - parents, he realizes now. Parents who no doubt feel that he is calling their pride into question.

“I realize that some among you may be confused by this policy; rest assured that I do not mean to insult your childrens’ work ethic. I am certain that in due time they will go on to serve the Cardassian Union dutifully. But consider, as I do, the importance of their welfare - while it may be difficult to be separated from them for the duration of your shift, this policy will both free you to do your best work, and aid in your peace of mind.

“Consistent with this policy, you may now leave your children in your quarters and proceed directly to your assigned destination. Do not resist any soldier who attempts to assist you in compliance with this policy. So long as you cooperate, there will be no need for any further disciplinary action. You have ten minutes to comply.”

There, he thinks, ending the broadcast. That ought to be the end of that.

* * *

Tora Naprem is sitting on her cot, wrist dangling loosely where she’s slung her arm over her knee, watching the screen mounted on the wall of the Section 35 group quarters.

“What a truly colossal ass,” she says to herself.

Several rows away, she sees one of the detained teenagers nod in agreement.

* * *

Dukat dismisses almost all of the Bazhorans present without processing them. It’s simpler that way, and most of them express quick and genuine contrition at their failure to comply with orders, and agree to be escorted directly to their quarters. Only two are taken to the interview rooms, and only because their resistance escalated to physical assault of an officer. Dukat expects they’ll be returned to their work stations before the day’s end, which, it turns out, is all the better - because the brig is full.

“Every cell? _Every cell is full?_ How is that possible?”

“It helps when we’re able to empty them,” Lukin gripes. He’s still clearly irritated from all the hubbub, and clearly in the mood to execute a few enemies of the state. “Assassin came from the harem; only made sense to arrest the whole lot of them.”

“The assassin?” Damar asks.

“The _harem?_ ” Dukat asks.

“See for yourself,” Lukin says, bringing up the feed.

As promised, every cell of the brig is full to capacity - and each one with increasingly beautiful Bazhoran women. There are women of every shape and size, almost forty altogether, all wearing beautiful Cardassian-style dresses that must have, at some point, been more clean and refined than anything he’s seen on this station. Looking at them alone is an indulgence, potent and intoxicating.

Dukat bites his tongue to keep it from swelling, and swallows his contempt.

“A _harem,_ ” he repeats. “I should’ve known. Tirek always was… perverse.”

Lukin surveys the screens from his chair, unmoved. “He called it a sponsorship program. Increased rations for their families in exchange for providing ‘comfort’ to officers on the station.” He scoffs around the turn of phrase.

Damar looks appalled. “These women are married?”

“With children. Every last one.”

Dukat shakes his head slowly. “Shameful. ...and yet,” he thinks aloud, “oddly sophisticated for Tirek. The man wasn’t known to be particularly clever.”

Lukin shakes his head. “Prid era program. Allegedly, that’s where he found his little sex toy, whatever her name was.” When Dukat turns to squint at him, he shrugs. “You didn’t hear about that? Ran off and married her, I’m told.”

“A _Bazhoran_?” Dukat scoffs. It’s unthinkable - but then, Booltath Prid is old ropes, was even when he got the job. Old, ugly, and unmarried. Dukat shakes his head, somewhere between disgusted and impressed by his gall. “...I didn’t realize he had it in him.”

“Quite the scandal,” Lukin agrees. “That’s why they decommissioned him, allegedly.”

Damar turns his head, taking in the women with a frown. “Tirek kept it going?”

“The program?” Lukin shrugs. “He wasn’t looking for a wife, that’s for sure. But the men liked it. More than they liked him, if the beheading’s any indication. Good way to relax.”

“I have no doubt,” Dukat muses. One woman in particular has caught his eye - she’s not classically beautiful, perhaps, but she is… _captivating_ , nonetheless. Her face and body are thin, betraying a delicate bone structure beneath her smooth pink skin. Her headfur is full and curly, a stunning bronze color. His eyes drift to the red slash of her mouth, the sweeping lines of her collarbones jutting above the collar of her dress. What would it be like, he wonders, to have a creature like that spread beneath you?

“I hear they’re warm from the inside out,” Damar says, his tone holding the same combination of wonder and disgust that threads hot and electric through Dukat’s blood, pooling in his groin.

“That’s what I hear,” Lukin says. “Couldn’t pay me to screw one of those things. I’d probably never get the stink out.”

Dukat sighs, unable to pull his eyes away. “Well, we can’t execute them. That much is certain.”

“What?” Lukin scowls. “Why the hell not?”

Dukat finally looks back over his shoulder, sardonic. “Chief. There’d be an outcry. From our own men, no less.”

“So?”

“These women have had visitors since their detainment, I presume.”

“Well, sure,” Lukin says, reluctantly. “A few.”

“A _few?_ ” Dukat raises his brow ridges, slightly impressed. “And all of them have left alive?”

“I suppose…”

“And you have no sufficient evidence of their involvement in the assassination?”

“I don’t need it.”

Dukat shakes his head. Lukin’s gifted as a security officer, but the man’s no politician. “Every woman in those cells is here because she has family to provide for. Assuming each one has a husband and only two children, that’s some one-hundred and fourteen Bazhorans who will turn on this administration if we execute them. And given the proximity of the most recent assassination, I’d rather not incentivize both them _and_ our men to come for _my_ head next.”

“So what am I supposed to do with them?”

This is a fair question. They can’t very well just release them back onto the station; even if they _are_ innocent of any collusion, it’s no secret that sedition poisons everything around it. One rotten kosvan taints the bunch, after all. No, their best move now is to separate them - make it impossible for them to conspire further, or turn anyone else on the station to their cause.

Besides that, he can’t afford to make the same decadent mistakes of his predecessors,

He sighs. “The perpetrators of this heinous act have already been punished. Send the rest home.”

Lukin looks like this is the greatest insult he’s been dealt all morning. But he still says, “Yes, sir.”

* * *

“The new Prefect’s a kiddie fucker. Pass it on.”

“You can’t possibly have evidence of that already,” Naprem mumbles as she comes out of a dream, only to realize that somebody’s just spoken to her.

She sits up, thoughts still muddled, her short hair mussed. She pushes her dark bangs out of her face. She apparently fell asleep, which over the past few days has become normal. It’s the only way to pass the time in the middle of the day. What _isn’t_ normal is that there’s someone sitting very close to her, expectantly awaiting a reply to… whatever it was they just said.

“Hello,” she says, still in a daze.

“I said pass it on,” the person says - no, she realizes now, not a person. A child. A very big child. Either a teenager or something very close to it with sharp, dark eyes and a short, puggish nose that’s nearly smothered under their thick, caramel-colored bangs.

“Pass what on?”

“That the new Prefect’s a--”

“Now why would I pass that on?” she asks. “And to whom?”

“Because it’s true,” the teenager says.

“Oh?” Naprem asks. “And how do you know?”

“Heard it from Cheta.”

Naprem has no idea who Cheta is. “And what are her reliable sources for that information?”

“Look,” says the teenager, “it just makes sense. Why else would he take us all off the work line and send Tirek’s… y’know -- _flower girls_ \-- all home at the same time?” They pause theatrically. “Because _we’re_ the new flower girls.”

Naprem sighs. “Do you know what an unfounded rumor is?”

“A what?”

“An unfounded rumor,” Naprem explains, feeling more tired by the second. “A piece of gossip that has no basis in provable fact.”

“I can so prove it.”

“‘Because it just makes sense’ is not proof. It’s conjecture.” Naprem folds up her cot so that it will hurt less to sit on the floor. She yawns in spite of herself. “And I don’t pass along information that could frighten people if I don’t have a good reason.”

The teenager has the nerve to cross their arms. “I thought it was ‘cuz nobody talks to you.”

“There’s also that,” Naprem admits.

“How come?”

“Mm?”

“How come nobody talks to you?”

“Oh,” Naprem sighs, “an overdeveloped sense of caution, I suppose. Self-preservation. It’s fairly likely that I’ll be killed soon. Irrational though it may be, I’m sure they simply don’t want to be caught up in whatever it was I’ve done wrong.”

Unbelievably, the teenager leans closer to her, as though her secrets will spill through a hole in her uniform. “What was it that you did wrong?”

Naprem looks at them - their dark eyes and their soft chin.

“Oh,” she says softly, “who can say.” She shakes her head a little, running her hand back through her hair. “Too many things to count.”

“Must’ve been something big,” the teenager says.

“That all depends on one’s perspective, I imagine.”

“How come they didn’t just execute you right away?”

Naprem looks up again, struggling to come up with a decent answer. “A sense of dramatic irony.”

The teenager narrows their eyes at her. They cant their chin.

“You’re weird,” they declare.

Naprem nods. “So I’ve been told.”

“I’m Cuuli,” the teenager says. “Cuuli Rire.”

“And will your mother approve of you speaking to me, Cuuli Rire?”

“Mom’s dead.”

Naprem feels a dull spike of pain. Of course.

“Mine too,” she says.

Cuuli nods, as if to say there’s no harm done. Naprem supposes that once you’ve been hurt enough times in the same way, the wound starts to callus over. “I’m with my cousin. We’re the only Cuuli’s left. Family of two.”

Naprem swallows thickly and extends her hand.

“Tora Naprem,” she says. “Family of one.”

* * *

Five days into his tenure as Prefect of Bazhor, Gul Skrain Dukat is beginning to think these people can’t be reasoned with.

The Bazhorans are a problem, of course. No surprise there; they have been for the better part of the last two decades. But the sheer number of heated conversations he’s been forced to weather as a result of his decision to disband Tirek’s so-called ‘sponsorship program’ has been frankly daunting. He barely has time for them in between calls from guls all over the protectorate, each one more hysterical than the last at the idea of implementing his orders.

And that’s all without mentioning the problem of implementing those same orders on Terok Nor. He’s already facing a litany of complaints, mostly from soldiers on duty supervising the residential quarters, where some 750 Bazhoran children are now confined throughout the day, and who are - as legions of unoccupied children are wont to do - getting into all manner of trouble.

This morning alone he’s had to resolve two separate disputes involving groups of Bazhoran children antagonizing their guards. Yesterday, he’d had to personally oversee the discipline of a child who was caught tampering with one of the wall monitors. Lukin, whose naturally bad temper has been baking under the pressure of re-homing the thirty-eight ‘sponsorship recipients’ before week’s end, can’t be trusted not to mette out disproportionately harsh discipline, and Dukat’s getting tired of cleaning up his messes.

He and Damar are discussing the issue over lunch; Damar shakes his head.

“You know what they say. Idle hands…”

“...are enemies of the state,” Dukat finishes. He sighs. His food lies on the table between them, mostly untouched.

“What we _need_ ,” he says, tossing his PADD onto the table and folding his hands, “is something to _do_ with all of them. It’s clear I underestimated the natural Bazhoran predisposition for disobedience. Left to their own devices with no parents to tame them, they can’t help themselves.”

Like poorly disciplined hound pups. He shakes his head. Perhaps Lukin was right - the terminology is _accurate_ , even if it’s impolite.

“There’s no skilled labor we could reassign them to?”

“No,” Dukat says, drumming his fingers along the arm of his chair. “That may work in other camps, but not here. The more delicate processes of ore refinery are too hazardous to be entrusted to any Bazhoran, very less a juvenile.”

He taps his chin, thinking.

“I was going to start interviews next week. See what I can’t learn from the natives pertaining to what it may take to mollify them and render this station more effective - perhaps we’ll start early.”

“Interviews, sir? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Of course, I’m sure.” Dukat glances up, and finds Damar looking apprehensive. “Damar. You must trust the process. Kora II, Torros III, Letau - each one of them was more chaotic and mismanaged than the last. But we put each and every one of them in order. And we’ll see to this just the same.”

“This is different,” Damar insists, shaking his head. “Those were Cardassian facilities.”

“So is this.”

“ _This_ is a Cardassian facility in hostile territory. The Bazhorans aren’t like us, sir. They’re animals. I doubt you’ll get anything useful. And, to the point…” Damar lowers his voice. “...it’s dangerous. A man was just assassinated in this office.”

Dukat cocks a brow. “I hardly consider Gul Tirek and myself to be of the same caliber. Don’t you agree?”

“Of course I do. But--”

“Glinn Damar,” Dukat says, decisively. “I hear your concerns. But I assure you - this _will_ work.”

Damar sighs. But he nods, relenting.

“May I humbly suggest we restrict the pool of interviewees to those of a Risk Assessment Level 2 or below?”

Dukat nods, slightly amused by his protectiveness. “If it will calm your nerves.”

“It will.”

He shrugs, opening his arms. “Then who am I to refuse?”

But truthfully, in spite of his efforts to remain calm, his mind is spinning, thoughts churning. What to do with the children of Bazhor, he wonders? What to do, indeed.

* * *

Tora Naprem, meanwhile, has her hands full.

She might have predicted that a pack of rowdy, unsupervised teenagers would be the only Bajorans on this station bored and naive enough to talk to her. Section 35 is home to four such teenagers, and one nine-year-old desperate for their approval - and after they've been detained together for a day and a half, forbidden to work or to leave, they somehow all end up perched around her. Mostly, she assumes, because it's the only thing to do now that they've finished flipping all the cots upside down, flicking things at the guards, and tormenting one another. Naprem hasn't received this much attention from a group of teenagers since she _was_ one. And back then, she'd done something to earn it. Climbed statues and whatnot. Smashed a tea cup in front of the Kai. The regular.

Now, she's simply the only thing around to gawk at. And, to the point, she's not in charge of the itinerary. They've spent the last five minutes trying to guess what crime she committed to be awaiting execution.

"Arson," guesses one.

"No."

"Murder," guesses another.

"Never in my life."

"Smuggling?" guesses the nine-year-old.

"I'm afraid not."

"Got in a knife fight," guesses the tallest.

"Do they execute people for that?"

"You're part of a cult," guesses Cuuli. (Cuuli, so far, has had the most creative guesses.)

"What? No." Naprem sighs. "Surely you all have something better to do than this, don't you? Let's… I don't know. Play a game."

"We've already played all the games we know," Cuuli says. "Besides, this is a game. Sort of."

Naprem's brow furrows, stomach growing heavy with unease. "I find myself distinctly underwhelmed by your sense of adventure, my friend."

Cuuli points to the diamond of scar tissue along her eyebrow. "What about that? Where'd you get that?"

Naprem sighs. "I got it many, many years ago for defying a man who's now dead in the name of something I don't remember."

"It's a tag, right?"

"Yes," Naprem says, acquiescing. She holds up her wrist, pulling her sleeve back to showcase the long line of black chips there. Eight chips altogether; one for each camp she's been to. The children all lean forward, gaping. "Once upon a time, before they'd properly implemented a system for Risk Assessment documentation, the Cardassians used to give us scars as a way of signaling that we were troublemakers. Different placement had different meaning. In some camps, they still do it. But it's mostly for show, now."

She sees a few of the children turn over their own wrists with a macabre fascination. Most have only one or two marks; they were born here, or transferred when they were still very young. Cuuli has four.

"So what's yours mean?" Cuuli asks. "What does it signal?"

Naprem purses her lips, then decides there's no use in denying them. "Verbal disobedience."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I talk too much, and Cardassians often don't like what I have to say."

"Do they kill people for _that_?"

"On occasion."

The children look up from their wrists, only to turn those same looks of morbid curiosity on _her._ She motions them forward with her hands.

"Enough about me," she says. "Let's teach you a new game."

It's clearly far too late to teach them to mind their own business. And she's hardly qualified to do that, anyhow.

* * *

Dukat is willing to admit that the interviews could be going better.

People - his superiors, mostly - have accused him in the past of being too prideful to recognize when he’s made a strategic miscalculation. This, he maintains, is patently untrue. He’s perfectly capable of recognizing it. The true difficulty of being such a genius strategist, of being so daring and inventive, is that it makes him overly optimistic. He _has_ to be willing to see his methods out, after all. No one else is.

Which only makes it more irritating when, in seeing them out, it becomes increasingly obvious that some part of his brilliant design isn’t working.

It doesn’t make sense. He taps his nail against the surface of his desk, staring at the Bazhoran across from him: a man named Cidrok, a Level 1 Risk who’s the most tame Bazhoran Dukat’s ever heard of. Cidrok is fifty-four and thoroughly round; a family man, like himself, doting father to three children and faithful husband to a woman approved for him by his overseer some ten years ago. His record is spotless. In accordance with the Level 1 guidelines, he’s never showcased will nor aptitude for resistance of any kind.

Which is why it’s so confusing that he’s failing, utterly, to answer any of Dukat’s questions.

“Mr. Cidrok,” Dukat says, his tone pointedly indulgent. “The question is a simple one. I assure you, I am not attempting to mislead you when I say that I would appreciate your honesty, and that your answers will be kept strictly confidential.”

“Yes, sir,” Cidrok says, jerking his head up and down in a nod.

“Now. I will ask you again: what improvements could be made to this station that would, in your opinion, improve the quality of your life as a worker here?”

Dukat keeps his voice level and patient, but before he’s even finished, Cidrok is shaking his head, lips quivering a little.

“Nothing, sir. We’re perfectly happy here, sir.”

Dukat sighs.

“Mr. Cidrok,” he says, reaching up to massage the growing pain in his temple. “You have three children who were no doubt affected by the recent implementation of our ban on child labor. Perhaps you have something to contribute on that subject.”

But Cidrok shakes his head. “No. No, sir. We’ll obey any order you give, sir. No resistance from us.”

Movement draws Dukat’s eye to Cidrok’s hands. They’re shaking. He holds them in his lap clasped together, no doubt in silent prayer.

Dukat sighs again. He nods.

“I see that. Well. Thank you for time, Mr. Cidrok.” He looks up and motions for the glinn standing guard at his door to come in to retrieve him. As the doors slide open, he offers Cidrok a reassuring smile. “You’ve been very helpful. You can return to your station.”

Cidrok gets up, bowing his head a little, and hurries out the door. Dukat sits back in his chair, frustrated, resting his chin on his knuckle. The small plate of complimentary foodstuffs he’s provided for his interviewees is as untouched now as it was when he replicated it.

Damar strides in after a moment’s pause, and comes to stand in front of his desk.

“Shall I fetch the next one?”

But Dukat shakes his head. “We’re going about this the wrong way.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “For some reason, they won’t give me any usable information. I ask for their thoughts and they have none.”

“Perhaps that’s to be expected,” Damar suggests. “Bazhorans are… simple, after all.”

But Dukat frowns, and shakes his head again. “No… No, I’m not convinced they are. I’ve been led to believe their species is… impulsive. Unsophisticated, dull-witted. But if they are, you’d think that the simplest among them would be easy to convince to tell me everything I want to know.” He gestures to his PADD, where a list of Level 1 and Level 2 candidates await him. “The Level 1s aren’t even clever enough to make trouble. They’re naturally obedient. So why would they resist me?”

“Pride?”

Dukat considers this, then dismisses it. “No. Among the Level 2s, perhaps. But they act the same as the Level 1s. As if…” He narrows his eyes. “...they’re _afraid_ of me. As though they were too afraid to speak their mind.” He looks to Damar again. “When was the last time any of these candidates was disciplined?”

“None in the last five years.”

“Any with documented incidents of resistance?”

“Absolutely not.” Damar says it as though he’s insulted him.

Dukat sighs, dryly. He’s misunderstood his point. “So, none that have ever been brought before any Prefect in this capacity.”

Damar folds his arms. “Isn’t it possible they’re just… perfectly content with their lives here? It’s hardly the worst place they could be. If they’re cleverer than we thought, maybe they simply have the presence of mind to be grateful for that.”

Dukat tips his head. “It’s possible. But… all twelve of them? Not _one of them_ who’d like… oh, I couldn't guess. More work variance, perhaps? Greater accolades for their successes? Secure employment opportunities for their children? No. Even the most satisfied individuals have _some_ desire for improvement in their lives.

“And let us not delude ourselves, Damar. Even the Bazhorans are aware that the Occupation effort is difficult and disorganized. It would be very nice if they weren’t. But…” He spreads his hands in a shrug. “...such is not the situation we find ourselves in.” He pauses. “If anything, that may be what stays their tongues. No doubt they think I’ll be offended by the truth.”

“What’s the move, then?”

Dukat drums his fingers against his chin. “It’s clear that the Level 1 and Level 2 Risks are too intimidated by me to provide useful information. ...we’ll have to look further up the ranking.”

“What?” Damar’s ridges blanch. “Absolutely not.”

Dukat ignores him - the idea is building in him, gaining momentum. “Someone… not _dangerous._ And no dissident sympathies, of course. But a worker with _will_. Documented cases of resistance - particularly verbal altercations with guards. A pattern of it. Yes… yes, that’s what we need.” He brings up a search on his personal terminal. “We’re looking for a very particular type of prisoner. Someone with fully-formed thoughts on the mechanisms of this Occupation who won’t be so intimidated by me that they won’t share them, if properly incentivized.”

“Gul Dukat,” Damar says, clearly about to protest. “In the interest of your personal safety--”

“Glinn Damar,” Dukat replies. “This _is_ in the interest of my personal safety - and, indeed, the safety of every officer on this station. Now… I want you to begin combing our registry for prisoners matching this description.”

There is a _reason_ Prefects get beheaded after all, he wants to tell him, even as he watches him storm out of the office. These things have causes. And Tirek may have been unpleasant and incompetent, but it was his policies that got him killed - and Dukat isn’t looking to be the next stain on the floor of this office.

* * *

As Naprem predicted, the guardians of her new pack of tagalongs aren’t particularly pleased to hear they’ve been speaking to her. The looks she gets from several of them are outright venomous. But Section 35 prisoners work the day shift, and they all seem to acknowledge the futility of confronting her. Naprem tries her level best not to encourage their attention, but the truth of the matter is that she couldn’t do much at this point to _dis_ courage it. As soon as they realize how strongly their guardians disapprove, the children only become more determined to spend time with her, Cuuli especially.

And, though she refuses to admit it out loud, and though she wishes she wouldn’t for all the pain it will inevitably bring her, she’s beginning to enjoy their company.

She teaches them all the games she knows: guessing games, riddle games, rhythm games, acting games, improvisation games, singing games, games to play alone, games to play together. When she runs out, she starts telling them stories. They’ve never heard any of the operas, and the guards are annoyed with their singing so Naprem can’t perform them, but she tells them the stories behind them, pinwheeling between tragedy, drama, and romance.

She’s halfway through recounting _The Final Lament of Nirdayi Un’mei_ when Cuuli interrupts her to ask, “Wait, what’s an ih’valla?”

And then she has a whole other set of stories to tell them; stories about their own history, the one none of them know or realize they have. Stories about light ships and the Second Republic, the Thousand Years War and the d’jarra. They keep her talking for hours, until her throat is dry and her mouth is sore and her brain is pinging with excitement, following their questions with answers that only spark more questions. Soon, she’s starting to dread the sound of the end of shift siren.

“What about the rest of the story?” Cuuli asks her as workers begin to filter back into the room.

“We’ll finish it tomorrow,” Naprem says, only to realize she’s said the same thing some three days running.

That night, when she’s lying on her cot, her food and water allotment sitting uncomfortably inside her, the woman with the sharp, angular face mutters something in her direction.

“Least you’re keeping them out of trouble.”

For a second, Naprem isn’t even certain she intends the words for her. But then, after an appropriate pause, the woman rolls back over, and it occurs to Naprem that she must have been.

It doesn’t stop the families from complaining, as soon as dawn breaks.

* * *

Security Chief Lukin’s general mood has finally reached levels so bad as to be actively dangerous to everyone around him.

The so-called 'flower girls' have finally been dealt with; each one sent back to their home camps without so much as pat on the head. He’s received approximately seventeen calls about their returns being ‘disruptive,’ all of which he’s terminated without listening all the way through. What does he care if it’s been _disruptive_ for them? He’s got a circus of his own to manage.

Because, of course, as soon as the brig is clear, they’ve filled it again, this time mostly with troublemakers waging complaint with the Prefect’s new child labor ban. Sure, there’s the odd stabbing or worker’s dispute to sort out, and sure, most of them appear to be linked to the ban in one way or another: spouses fighting over what their children might be getting up to, a woman refusing to work until she can be reunited with her infant, as though it’s not better off in an incubator than an ore processing room.

That’s hardly his most pressing concern - the real issue is with laborers who think they can get away with antagonizing the guards and insulting the Prefect. There’s more and more every day: people spreading injurious and slanderous rumors, agitators encouraging others to violence.

And that’s without mentioning that a good 80% of his shift is now dedicated to resolving issues with the roving packs of feral Bazhoran pups left behind in the residential quarters. Dukat’s forbidden him from arresting the little bastards without, as he put it, “due cause” - that is, to justify throwing them in the brig, Lukin has to personally witness them commit a violent crime, which is patently ridiculous. He can’t think of any more effective way to prevent him from doing his job.

And so, on this particular morning, he arrives at the Security Office in a mood that’s nothing short of apocalyptic.

Making the call from Section 35 a sort of… gift.

Truthfully, it’s been a while since he’s thought about Laborer #98719. He hasn’t had the time. But when the call arrives, he can think of no better way to spend his morning than excising her from his station.

“She’s **what**?” he snarls into his comm link.

“ _She’s leading some kind of… forum. I don’t know. Workers were complaining about it. Looks seditious in nature._ ”

Of course it does. Criminals like Laborer #98719 can’t help themselves. Lukin allows himself a bitter grin.

“I’m on my way,” he mutters, securing his phaser in its holster with more pleasure than is strictly necessary.

* * *

“Their names are what?”

“Printed on their uniforms.” Naprem points across the way to the guards standing at the entrance to Section 35, to the printing along the gray veins of their armor. “See?”

Cuuli sits forward, expression skeptical but eyes wide. “That _says_ something?”

“It does. Though I can’t read it from here.”

“I’ve never met anyone who can read Cardassian.”

“Cardăsda,” Naprem corrects, in spite of her dismay. “You haven’t?”

Cuuli shrugs. “Most people I know can’t even read Bajora.”

Naprem raises her eyebrows, trying not to feel the immense sadness that wells up in her at the thought. “No…?” She turns to the group. “Can any of you?”

They shake their heads - some seem ashamed. Some seem to share in her sadness. The nine-year-old simply looks confused.

“What’s reading?” he asks.

“It’s…” Naprem swallows. Tries to take a deep breath. Tries _not_ to remember that, at his age, her favorite pastime was stealing away with tomes nearly as big as she was. To rob an entire generation of Bajorans of that simple pleasure…

“It’s when you use visual symbols to make words. Here.” She lifts her pinky and wets it on her tongue. On the matte metal of the floor, she writes her own name in Bajoran script, and her mind aches as she does - it’s been years, and the muscle memory tingles with atrophy. She points to each syllable as she reads it. “This is my name: To-ra Na-pre-m.”

“How do you write my name?” Cuuli asks, plastering to her side.

Naprem wets her finger again and writes it beneath her own.

“What about me?” everyone’s asking at once. “What about mine?”

“This is mine,” the nine-year-old says. He wets his finger and promptly draws an elaborate, loopy squiggle on the ground. Naprem shocks herself by laughing.

“Beautiful,” she assures him.

“What does it say?” he asks, eagerly.

She leans over to survey it. “...ha...khe…” She turns her head. “D’ji. Ha khe d’ji.”

Instead of looking disappointed by his nonsense words, he lights up. “I can write!” he crows.

“How?” the group clamors. “How did he do that? Teach us!”

“Alright, alright - here, now. I’ll write your names. Just copy the shapes I make.”

It’s a credit to the commotion they’re making that she doesn’t hear the security officers approaching. She’s leaning into Cuuli, helping them make their letters when a shadow falls across them. She looks up, and doom clangs in her chest.

Cuuli looks up, too. She sees their eyes land on the script along the officers' chest plates.

“What does that say?” they murmur.

“Security Chief Lukin,” she says, dully.

Lukin grins down at her in a way that’s distinctly sinister.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.

Naprem refuses to break eye contact. She can feel the children around her, shrinking back. Two of the teenagers have hidden the nine-year-old behind them. Cuuli is pressed to her side. She feels one of the girls near her start to tremble.

“Passing the time,” she says.

Lukin lifts his foot and puts it down directly on top of Naprem’s name on the floor.

“Defacing station property?”

Naprem swallows her anger, but it sews tightness into her jaw nonetheless. She feels lucky that all of the passion has drained from her voice. “Not unless you consider Cardassian engineering incapable of withstanding Bajoran bodily fluids.” She looks down, speaking under her breath. “Seems like a critical design flaw.”

She feels Cuuli hiccup with aborted, terrified laughter.

Lukin sneers down at her. “We’ve received reports of a seditionist operating in this section. Conniving with several youths.” He looks around. “You all seem to match that description.”

A bolt of fear goes through her. She struggles to keep her calm.

“We’re not conniving. I’m teaching the children to write. What rule does that violate?”

Lukin’s hand closes around her arm and yanks her off the floor with such force that it very nearly dislocates her shoulder. A gasp of pain betrays her as Cuuli and their friends leap back with cries of dismay.

“Unsanctioned gatherings are a criminal offense,” Lukin says, with obvious relish. “You’ve eluded Cardassian justice for the last time, #98719. I’m taking you straight to the Prefect.”

“Wait--” Cuuli starts to say, and from the grave, Naprem feels the grip of Uru’s cold fingered hand.

“Hush,” she tells them, and she sees their anger give way to despair. “Don’t say anything.”

 _Thank you_ , she wants to tell them as Lukin drags her away. _Thank you for making my final days special._

But she can’t risk putting them in any greater danger. So, as she’s done for the last seventeen years, she allows herself to be hauled away in silence.

* * *

“Damar. I’ve been very _patient._ It is _impossible_ that you’ve yet to find someone suitable who matches my qualifications.”

“Sir,” Damar says. He has the gall to be as upright and handsome as ever, chin raised defiantly. “I must register my strenuous objections to this course of action.”

Dukat shakes his head, frankly stunned. “Glinn Damar. At this point you’re not _registering_ your objections, you’re _enforcing_ them. And in so doing, defying my direct orders.”

Damar’s ridges blanch with unease, but he stands firm. “Sir, according to my research, there are no appropriate interview candidates matching your criteria.”

“Yes there are,” Dukat says, feeling like he’s negotiating with a drunk. He gestures to his PADD. “I’ve provided you a list.”

“Your list was comprised entirely of laborers designated a Level 4 Risk and above.” Damar shakes his head. “It would be counter to all of our goals here for me to willfully place you in the company of such dangerous criminals, especially with regards to the number of current threats against your life. Protocol dictates that I may debate a direct order if and only if following it to its logical realization would be detrimental to the health of the Union--”

“Damar--” Dukat begins, tone growing more dangerous by the minute.

But Damar forges on in defiance of it. “--which, I think you will agree, your unnecessary death would be!”

Dukat slams his hand down on the table and is gratified by the way his second flinches. “You’re willing to be court martialed over this?” he growls. He shakes his head, slowly. _Unbelievable._ “I admire your conviction. And resent your lack of faith in me.”

“Sir!” Damar almost gasps. “I have _utter_ faith in you.”

“This is a funny way of showing it,” Dukat snarls. He reaches for his wrist comm; he thinks he won’t go through with it? He didn’t fly Damar halfway across Union space for the man disrespect and stonewall him. No matter what his intentions, Dukat is, frankly, insulted.

“I don’t have time to cowtow to your caution, Damar. We have to work with these people. It’s the only way this administration is going to survive, and the only way this Occupation has any hope of succeeding. I am more than capable of defending myself if any of these animals is to become violent - what I am _not_ capable of is operating in enemy territory without reliable intelligence, and without a second who’s capable of following orders.”

“Capable of-- _sir_!” Damar’s definitely offended now. “I would follow you anywhere!”

Dukat levels him with a look. “Then I will give you exactly one chance to assure me of your loyalty: bring me an interview candidate matching my specifications _now._ Or I’ll have you brought up on charges of insubordination.”

Damar’s mouth drops open. He works it stubbornly, seeming like he might very well have something to say to that.

But before he can, he’s interrupted. The doors to Dukat’s office slide open, and Lukin marches in with a Bazhoran in hand and an ugly sneer on his mouth. He’s clearly marched her all the way here; he’s slightly out of breath.

“Gul Dukat,” he says. “I’d like your expedited permission to execute this prisoner.”

Dukat’s brows jump up before he can stop them. “...on what grounds?” he manages.

“An unlawful gathering in the residential quarters.” Lukin shakes the woman like a hound with a vole. Dukat sees her mouth thin; she refuses to meet his eyes. “Seems she thought it might be fun to preach sedition to the pups there.”

He’s not certain, but Dukat could swear he hears the woman say, “They’re called _children_ ,” out of the corner of her mouth.

Behind her, he sees Damar bring up something on his PADD before his eyes widen. “...Laborer #98719 is a Risk Level 6, sir.”

A plan unfolds in Dukat’s mind as soon as he says it. He surveys the woman - Laborer #98719 - with a slow building sense of satisfaction. She isn’t fighting to get away. On the contrary, Lukin appears to be holding her at a very uncomfortable angle, which she simply submits to.

“Any violent offenses?” he asks.

Damar looks slightly ill. “...no, sir,” he admits.

Dukat gives him a look, daring him to object.

But Damar - loyal, steadfast Damar - simply exhales an exasperated sigh.

“I obey, sir,” he says. Dukat watches him as he crosses the room and places his PADD in his hand; he wears an expression of quiet resignation. He turns to Lukin. “The Prefect will interview her. Set her in the chair.”

“What?” Lukin looks aghast. “Why?”

“That’s an order,” Damar says, tone going steely.

Lukin looks between them like he thinks they might be joking. Dukat raises a brow expectantly, and Lukin’s expression darkens. He practically flings the woman into the chair.

“This is--” He stops, turning to look between them again. “Gul Dukat--”

Dukat flicks his hand. “You’re dismissed, Chief.”

Lukin gapes. Rage flashes through his face. He salutes, weakly, then stomps out of the room. Damar follows, shaking his head.

Then, the doors slide shut, and Dukat’s free to examine his prize.

The first thing he notices is how beautiful she is - dirty and unkempt, certainly. She stinks, as though she hasn’t been showered in several days. But the smell isn’t… unpleasant, so much as it is distracting. And the accoutrements of her prolonged internment - her smell, her short, shaggy headfur, her threadbare clothes - do very little to diminish the princeliness of her appearance. This is what Tirek's harem was missing, he thinks: a true and undeniable star attraction. Under her ragged uniform, she’s curvaceous, with the body of a wife: wide hips and a round belly, plump arms and thighs, smooth brown skin only marred occasionally by scars. Her neck is sumptuous and smooth. Her face is lovely; symmetrical and heart shaped, thick lips surrounding her diamond mouth. And her _eyes_ \- he’s never seen their equal. A milky jade that burns brilliantly against her brown skin.

The second thing he notices is that she seems oddly… _unnervingly_ familiar to him. He struggles to place her, working to find her in his eidetic memory to no avail.

He shakes his head, looking down at the PADD to review her file. He must be confusing her for someone else, though he’s not sure how that’s possible.

“Laborer #98719.” He looks up at her, smiling genially. “It says here that your given name is Tora Naprem. May I call you that?”

Tora Naprem stares at him, her expression oddly vacant. After a moment, she shakes her head in the smallest possible way.

“I imagine you’ll call me whatever you like.”

Her voice, too, is distracting - deep, but light, with a flowery, musical presence to it, even when she’s utterly deadpan. Dukat cocks his head slightly to the side.

“Is there something else you prefer to be called?”

“By Cardassians, sir?” She shakes her head again. “I prefer to go entirely unmentioned.”

Dukat narrows his eyes. Entirely unmentioned? He’s not sure what she’s getting at. “You _must_ be aware your criminal activities render that impossible.”

“Must I be?” she asks.

“Yes,” Dukat says. It seems this should be obvious to her.

When she doesn’t reply, he continues, slightly put off by her odd style of communication. “My name is Gul Dukat. I am the Prefect of this planet, and the overseer of this station.”

“Yes,” Tora says, “I deduced that much from context.”

Dukat can’t help but squint at her, puzzled. She's utterly perplexing to him.

But different. That much is reassuring. She’s already said more in the last minute than he was able to get out of most of the Level 1s and 2s in a full half an hour.

“Before we discuss the circumstances under which you arrived in my office, I’d like to… ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind. About the state of Bazhoran life on this station.”

“Bajoran,” she says.

“I beg your pardon?”

Tora is staring at him. He watches her inhale deeply through her nose, then close her eyes and release it. Her arms are cuffed in front of her, and he sees her small hands curl into fists before relaxing. She opens her eyes again.

“Usually, I wouldn’t speak so freely,” she says. “But given the fact that I’m going to be executed shortly, and the fact that I no longer have any friends or family that can be leveraged against me, I’m going to.”

Dukat opens his hand. “Please.”

“I refuse to submit to being executed by a man who can’t even pronounce the name of the planet he’s supposed to be in charge of.”

Dukat… pauses. Blinks.

“...do I hear correctly…?”

“We are not _Bazhorans_ ,” she says, mimicking his accent exactly. “We are _Bajorans_. It’s a hard ‘jo.’ You’re letting it slip between your teeth like something overcooked.” She chops the syllable in half. Her voice, though dull, is now beginning to tremble with bitterness. “We are _Bajorans_ from the _Bajor_ , around which this self important symbol of tyranny now orbits, and if you’re going to shoot me, or space me, or whatever it is you people do when you feel like spicing up your day with a bit of murder, you’re going to know how to say my people’s name right.”

Dukat stares at her. Her passion, which bubbled beneath her words, seems to dissipate as she takes another breath. He can’t tell if he’s more shocked, insulted, or intrigued. He’s never in his life been spoken to this way by a prisoner. No one’s ever had the gumption.

“You,” he says slowly, “are _fearless_ , Tora.”

“No, sir.” She shakes her head. “I’m simply not afraid of you. There’s a difference.”

Dukat barks out a laugh, too surprised not to. Not afraid of him? This woman is either profoundly stupid or profoundly daring - in fact, he’s not entirely certain there’s much of a difference.

Either way, she’s precisely what he’s been looking for, and that dulls the sting of her impertinence.

“Then perhaps I can convince you to speak with equal candor to the question of what ought to be done to improve life on this station.”

“To what end?” Tora has folded her hands in her lap as best she can around the cuffs, but she shows no signs of anxiety or discomfort. She neither trembles, nor stutters.

“What else?” Dukat wishes he’d thought to put out food or drink to make her feel a little more welcome. “As Prefect, my duty is to shepherd those in my care - I realize life for… your people,” he says, to avoid mispronouncing the word again, “is, at times, somewhat difficult under Cardassian reign. I wish to do everything I can to improve it.”

Tora is staring at him again.

“This from a man who couldn’t even implement a ban on child labor effectively.”

“I don’t take your meaning.”

Tora ducks her chin to look him in the eye so directly, it’s as if she’s scolding him. “Do you know how hard it is to screw up the implementation of something as universally popular as a _ban on child labor_?”

“I--”

“You genuinely think people are upset because they’re insulted you won’t let our children work in some of the most dangerous conditions available on this planet?”

Dukat wrinkles his nose. “Why wouldn’t they be? It’s only natural for parents to want to be proud of their children’s work ethic.”

Tora gives him a look like he’s deranged. “You _enslave us._ There’s not one Bajoran who takes pride in the work you force them to do, and there’s not one Bajoran parent who feels pride in forcing their children to work alongside them in life threatening conditions.”

Dukat scoffs, shaking his head. So hyperbolic. “I doubt many share that opinion.”

“Then you’re an idiot,” Tora says.

Dukat goggles at her.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Furthermore,” Tora continues, as though he said nothing, “what kind of legislation banning child labor doesn’t include a _step two_? You forcibly rip people away from their children with no explanation, imprison those who resist, and then what? You’ve got… what? Some seven hundred children unsupervised, unattended all day?”

Dukat raises a finger to stop her. “Now, that--”

“I’ve seen more than my fair share of Prefects come through this office,” Tora says. The bitter passion has come back into her voice, and Dukat can’t tell if he enjoys or resents it. “I really thought after we beheaded the last one, they’d send us one with a brain.”

That _is_ too far, and Dukat intends to let her know it. He shows his teeth. “Are you implicating yourself in the assassination of the last Prefect, Tora?”

Tora’s mouth shuts, and she presses her lips into a thin line.

“...I was using the collective ‘we.’”

“Hm,” Dukat says, looking pointedly unconvinced. For the first time, he sees Tora pull her shoulders in defensively, seeming to retreat back into her blasé.

“You said you wanted candor,” she reminds him, a stubborn jut to her lips.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Within reason. I presume you didn’t come here to be insulted. You’ll notice I’ve been perfectly civil. I’d prefer it if you could extend me the same courtesy.”

Tora exhales slowly, but doesn’t relax. “Fine,” she says. “Ask your questions.”

He extends a hand expectantly. “You disagree with my implementation of the child labor ban.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you’d like to see child labor reinstated.”

Tora’s voice is sharp. “No, sir.” She swallows, pushing back into her chair. “I would not.”

Dukat dips his chin to encourage her to continue. “Well? You have some idea of what should be done with the children? Perhaps a skilled position to which we could assign them?”

“I think the idea of assigning children to labor of any kind is morally repugnant,” Tora says. Her shoulders aren’t set against her ears, he realizes - they’re straight and proud. She’s sitting as tall as she can. “And,” she continues, with noted reluctance, “an active detriment to the future workforce.”

Dukat’s brows shoot up.

No, he thinks… not stupid at all. Really almost…

...clever.

“I don’t disagree with you,” he says, slowly.

Tora looks dismayed, though he can’t guess why. They agree at least on the latter half of her point. The former is debatable, but not really of interest to him.

“I think childhood is an immensely valuable time in any person’s life, be they Cardassian or… otherwise. We’ve been very lucky up until now to be able to rely on the labor of individuals who came to maturity before the Occupation. But soon, a new generation will join the workforce, and I fear those within it may lack vital experiences and skills innate to childhood.”

Tora’s dismay has morphed into active disgust, but she nods.

“So,” he says, “I ask you - what would their time be better spent doing?”

Tora’s mouth is still tight. She appears to be biting her tongue. But finally, she speaks again.

“You should send them to school,” she says.

“To _school?_ ” Dukat’s brow knits. “You mean erecting educational pavilions. To what end?”

Tora looks exasperated. “To address exactly the problems you’re talking about. If you keep killing us the way you have - and I think you will - soon, the majority of Bajoran adults in the workforce will be those born and raised in the Occupation.”

“I am doing everything I can to change that,” Dukat insists.

“I don’t see you doing much of anything.” Tora presses her hands palm to palm emphasizing her words. “Listen to me. Soon, you’re going to have a wave of new adults entering the workforce who don’t know how to read or write. Who only know simple arithmetic. Who have absolutely no sense of their own history or yours. Whose ability to understand policy and perform their duties will be handicapped by their inability to receive information except by word of mouth.”

“Compelling though that is, I can’t possibly mandate that young Bazhorans be _educated._ Tora,” he shakes his head. “Be reasonable. If I even suggested it, Central Command might well behead me themselves.”

“Why not?” Tora demands. “You’ve already ordered a ban of child labor. These guls are up to their neck in children they don’t have the first idea what to do with. Mandating that those children be educated gives them something to _do_ all day. It gets them out of the way, guarantees that they’re safe and supervised, and gives you a convenient platform to indoctrinate them. If you’re capable of announcing something before letting your men implement it as ham-fistedly as they please, it might even go over well with their families.” She shakes her head. “I swear, you are the first man I’ve met in my life so utterly incapable of seeing a total victory when it’s right in front of you.”

Dukat hasn’t been able to take his eyes off of her since she started speaking. It’s utterly impossible not to hang off her every word. And, what’s somehow more surprising, she’s making an awful lot of sense.

It wouldn’t be difficult to establish an educational pavilion on Terok Nor. With their current facilities, there’s several unoccupied spaces on the Promenade that could easily accommodate them. Securing docents poses a challenge, but not an insurmountable one. And pending a successful pilot of such a program here on his own station, it would be simple to adapt the guidelines and specifications used here for the rest of the planet.

And, to Tora’s point, he has compelling enough reasons to satisfy any would-be detractors; no Bazhoran -- that is, no _Bajoran_ in their right mind could possibly argue that they would rather have their children do work they’re unqualified for than receive an education, even if their curriculum will be decided and overseen by Cardassians.

Furthermore, his own peers won’t be able to argue against it unless they can come up with a reasonable alternative. He refuses to rescind the ban. If the guls under his leadership wish to find an alternative to educating the young Bazhorans - no, Bajorans - in their care, they will have to find one that meets with his approval. Assuming it works, he’s fairly confident that most will erect them simply to avoid having to come up with a better idea.

He peers at her, suddenly insatiably curious. Where did she _come_ from?

“What did you do?” he asks. “Before being interned, I mean.”

Tora stares back at him. She gestures to his PADD with her bound hands. “I’m sure it’s in my file.”

Dukat couldn’t care less about the file. The file didn’t mention her eyes, or her voice, or her gift for politics. “I want to hear it in your words. What did you do before the Occupation?”

Tora slowly shakes her head.

“Got into trouble, mostly.”

“Doing what?” He tips his head, smiling again. “Really, Ms. Tora, I _must_ know.”

“It’s ‘Ms.’ now?”

“Were you… a politician?”

“No.” She looks suddenly very far away. “That was… at the time, forbidden. To members of my station.”

Ah, yes - the now defunct caste system, he remembers hearing something about that. He shakes his head. “Were you an academic?”

“Occasionally. When I could get away with it.” For the first time, she looks away from him. “The politics I was involved with are no longer relevant.”

She sighs, returning her gaze to his; he’s alarmed at how relieved it makes him to have reclaimed her full attention. “No, Gul Dukat. I was an opera singer. A _ya’ishara_. And occasionally I annoyed people with a great deal of power over me. As I imagine - or… _hope_ , really - I am now annoying you.”

An _opera singer._ He knew they made them differently on Bazhor - _Bajor_ \- but he couldn’t possibly have realized how much. He rests his chin on his knuckle, unable to swallow the odd, disbelieving grin that sprawls across his mouth.

He shifts his gaze to the PADD again, reviewing her information. For a minute or so, they sit in silence as he reads. She surprises him again, by being bold enough to interrupt it.

“If it’s all the same to you, Gul Dukat, I’d like to be executed now.”

Dukat lifts his eyes from her documentation.

“Executed?” he repeats.

“Yes,” she says.

“Why would I execute you?”

“I wasn’t aware you people needed a reason.” She gestures to the PADD again. “But if you’d like one, I’m sure you can find something.”

Dukat chuckles, in spite of himself. Once he’s looking at her again, he can’t possibly go back to reading. She is _something_ , isn’t she?

“Not at all,” he says. “You’ve been immensely helpful to me, Ms. Tora. I believe that your insight may be incredibly valuable to me as I move forward in my position here. Your intellect and honesty are absolutely unmatched by any… Bachoran,” he attempts, “I’ve met before.”

(He only corrects himself on the pronunciation because he doesn’t want Tora to get distracted. _Not_ , he maintains, because her previous correction embarrassed him.)

She wrinkles her ridged nose all the same, and he’s aware of a self-conscious flush along his ridges. Bajoran, he attempts in his head. Ba _jo_ ran.

He hides his embarrassment behind his PADD. “It says here you still have no valid work permit.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Would you like one?”

When he looks up again, Tora is staring at him.

“...would I like one what?”

“A work permit.” He glances over her file again. “It says here you were assigned to the Records department at Cibawea. All reviews of your performance there are exemplary.” He checks his personal terminal. “Our own Records department is badly in need of staff. I’ll be glad to assign you there.”

Tora seems paler than before, somehow. He wonders if it's a trick of the light.

“...is this a joke, sir.”

Dukat frowns, confused again. “Why would I joke about this?”

Tora’s voice wavers slightly. He realizes she’s started to tremble. “I’d like to know when I’ll be executed, sir.”

“Tora,” he says, frowning deeper. “At the moment I have no intention to execute you.”

Something contorts Tora’s face that looks very much like anguish. It shocks him - it splays so openly across her features.

“You’re aware of why I was sent here, sir?”

Dukat stares at her a moment. Then, slowly, he thinks he might understand what this is about. He looks down at the PADD again, drumming his thumb against it. It’s impossible that he wouldn’t know, of course. It’s listed right at the top of her documentation.

“...it says here you accused Gul Reshad of murder. Conspiracy.” He looks up again, and rests his elbows on the desk, hands folded before him. “Assassination of his superior officer.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice is sharp, but soft. “I did.”

The silence between them weighs heavy. But he watches her: her hands beginning to tremble slightly. She struggles to maintain her composure. Such a delicate creature. So entirely at his mercy.

“I can assume from even our brief conversation you had reason to do so,” he muses.

“Yes, sir.”

“It says here you submitted evidence to be reviewed by the Central Command.”

“Yes.”

“On a secured channel you had access to, due to your position in the Records department.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looks at her a while longer. Then shakes his head very slowly.

“I don’t see any reason to execute you for that.”

Instead of looking relieved, Tora only looks more upset. “Sir--”

“Nothing you’ve described is a capital offense.”

“Sir, everyone I love is dead.”

She says it so savagely, he’s somehow surprised that it doesn’t reinvoke the scent of blood from the floorboards. Tora’s breath is uneven, as though all this is physically taxing for her.

“Everyone I love is dead,” she says again. “I’m content to be executed.”

Dukat considers this. He considers her: her softness and her passion, her brilliant mind and her sharp tongue.

No, he thinks, shaking his head. It’d be a waste. An unforgivable waste.

“I’m afraid I am not content to execute you.”

"Sir--"

He can see the argument on her face. Resistance, anguish. It turns something inside him. Twists it. He finds himself sitting forward in his chair, barely able to tolerate the potency of her emotion.

"Tora," he says. "I think you've suffered enough."

He sees the words on her tongue die. She closes her mouth - the power of protest leaves her, and she seems to shrink.

He presses a few keys on his terminal, which chimes. “I’ve assigned you to Records.”

Tora shudders in her chair. But her expression drains again, until it's as empty as when she arrived.

“You’ve been very helpful today, Ms. Tora,” he insists. “I imagine I may seek your advice again, in the future - you can take heart in knowing you’ve made yourself useful to me.”

Tora breathes in and then out. “And just when I was trying so hard not to be,” she says.

Even after Damar comes in to return her to her quarters, Dukat finds himself listening to the silence, waiting to hear whatever she might say next.


End file.
